


it's just a shimmy and a shake

by annundriel



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Post-The Raven King
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 23:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11633868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: Some things change, other things don't.





	it's just a shimmy and a shake

Adam feels the bass of the music in his bones, the thump-thump-thump of it as rhythmic and hectic as his heartbeat, as the pulse that beats beneath his palms. Ronan's wrists are pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, hot and alive in the rings of Adam's fingers. He squirms, hips shifting between Adam's thighs, but doesn't try to get away, to break Adam's hold. Besides the tantalizing brush of Ronan's cock—layers of denim and cotton still between them—this is what makes Adam feel the most lightheaded; Ronan Lynch spread below him, pale skin bright against his dark sheets, tattoo dark against his pale skin, blue of his eyes drowned by want, mouth pink and kiss-bruised.

Adam groans and buries his face in the curve of muscle where Ronan's shoulder meets his neck. He smells sweat and moss and _Ronan_ , feels the rumble of something that's part chuckle, part moan at their new proximity, at the way their chests and dicks are pressed together. Adam feels on fire, and bites down at that curve, the black of Ronan’s tattoo curling to meet him. He listens for the moment when the hybrid noise Ronan's making changes to pure, unadulterated want, then sucks a mark against his skin, a gentle bruise that means nothing more than _yes_ and _this_ and _you_.

"Fuck," Ronan says, throat catching with a click.

Adam grins against him, knows that Ronan can feel his teeth. Knows now—for certain—how much Ronan likes that grounding bite, that mark left on his skin.

"Adam," he groans, and Adam's hips hitch at his name, so rarely used by Ronan. "Parrish, I swear to motherfucking Christ, if you don't—if you don't stop, I'll—"

The rest is lost in an incoherent sound, and Adam pulls back with a smirk to hover above Ronan, the beat-beat-beat coursing through his veins. "You'll what?"

Ronan blinks at him, eyes hazy. There's a flush high on his cheeks that sweeps down to his jaw and neck that Adam wants to follow lower, see how far it goes. Discover the boundaries of this brave new world where Ronan looks at him like he is the sun and moon and stars, like he is—

"I'll kick your ass out," Ronan says. "Don't think I won't."

Adam laughs, hands shifting on Ronan's wrists, and leans down to kiss him, tongues slick and dirty. "No, you won't, Lynch."

Ronan's face does something complicated, his eyes skipping over Adam's from the fall of his hair to his eyes to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

 _Maybe not so new a world_ , Adam thinks.

"No," Ronan agrees. "Probably not."

Out of the corner of his eye, Adam catches movement. Ronan's fingers curl and uncurl, and Adam can only imagine how badly he wants to touch, to fill his palms with Adam. He wants it, too, wants to feel Ronan's fingers firm against his shoulders and hips, to feel the points of his fingertips down the back of his neck as Ronan kisses and kisses and kisses him. He wonders—has wondered, will wonder—about those hands in his hair, tangling, as he fits his mouth around Ronan, something they haven't done yet but, oh, oh, it is only a matter of time.

He loosens one of his hands, moving from Ronan's wrist to thread their fingers together, palm to palm. Ronan hangs on, grip tight, and slides his arm up the bed, forcing Adam to sink closer and closer.

"You're a shit," Ronan says, voice breathless, cock hard against Adam's. Adam feels the same; it's difficult to focus, Ronan all around him.

"It's why you like me."

Ronan's nose brushes his, breath against Adam's face. "It's part of it."

It sounds like a secret, whispered between them. Adam's heart surges in his chest, and he closes the distance—however small—between them once again, fitting their mouths together. Around his fingers, Ronan's grip tightens. Between his thighs Ronan's hips move. God. Adam can feel how hot he is even through the layers and it isn't enough, isn't enough by half.

"Ronan," he gasps. "Ronan, your shirt, your—" He means to add pants, but Ronan pushes against him, wriggling out of Adam's grasp to pull his tank up and over his shoulders. It disappears over the side of the bed, and then his hands are slipping beneath the hem of Adam's shirt and tugging, pulling it up and off.

"There," he says, smirking. "Equal." And then his hands are on either side of Adam's face and they're rocking back down to the bed, bare chest against bare chest, and Adam knows now that flush makes it at least part of the way down Ronan's torso.

He’ll never get over the way Ronan touches him when they’re alone, when they’re like this. Even when they’re in public, Ronan has always been…different with Adam; casual the way he is with Gansey, but more. Proprietary. It would drive Adam crazy from anyone else, but being Ronan Lynch’s? Well. There are nights when Adam has lain awake and wondered why he didn’t realize the quality of his feeling sooner.

Ronan’s hands on him now are demanding, hips insistent. In his chest, Adam’s heart sings. _He_ did this. Him. It floors Adam, each and every time, the way Ronan goes needy—as needy as he ever gets—against him. It floors Adam how much he likes it, how much he longs to touch Ronan and see him fall apart like this. It’s not danger he’s intoxicated with in these moments, it’s Adam, and oh _fuck_. Adam doesn’t always know what to do with that, with Ronan flushed and bright and beautiful beneath him. Luckily, Ronan’s always willing to offer him some pointers.

“Adam,” Ronan breathes against his mouth.

Adam rolls his hips, their cocks pressed together in the absence of space between them. They haven’t done much more than this, their bodies rocking together, chasing down pleasure hot and bright and overwhelming. (Adam wonders, sometimes, in the passenger seat of Ronan’s BMW, if Ronan gets the same thrill doing this that he does taking those curves to the Barns; Adam does.) They’ve touched and grasped, wrapped hands and lips around each other, pressed finger- and mouth-shaped bruises into each other’s skin, but nothing more. Not yet. Pressed like this against Ronan, his thighs spread, Adam wants to.

 _God_ , he wants to. He’d let Ronan take him apart, comfortable now in the knowledge that it would never be completely. That Ronan’s hands—his miraculous hands—would put him back together just as easily.

That Ronan would let him do the same.

Not that he’s said as much. Not that either of them have. But all Adam has to do is crowd Ronan against any surface, horizontal or vertical, and he knows. It’s there in the way Ronan’s eyes darken, in the way his hips tilt and his legs fall open, making room for Adam, only Adam. Watching Ronan watch him, Adam doesn’t think he’s ever felt so alive before, not without the intervention of magic.

“Parrish.”

“What?” Adam breathes, nipping at the corner of Ronan’s jaw, moving up to suck at his earlobe. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

Ronan chuckles. Or maybe it’s a groan, it’s getting difficult to tell. His clever hands move over Adam’s shoulders to his neck, up and up until his fingernails against Adam’s scalp send shivers down Adam’s spine, and then he tugs, lightly, at Adam’s hair. “Would you just fucking _touch me_ ,” he says. “You’re a _menace_.”

Pausing, their faces tucked together, Adam can hardly believe his ears. He laughs, what he feels within him too much to contain, and pulls back to look at Ronan. “ _I’m_ the menace?”

With a lick of his lips, Ronan nods. His lips are soft and full for a moment before they pull into a wicked grin. “I’ve been rubbing off on you.”

“Fu—” Rolling his eyes, Adam ducks his head to look between their bodies. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

Ronan’s hips hitch, lifting Adam. “Well, I’ve been _trying_.”

“Gonna—God!” He grinds down, feels Ronan hard and hot through the layers of their jeans. “You’re going to have to try harder.”

Ronan laughs, a sound that manages to be both dark and joyful and sends shivers down Adam’s spine. “Not hard enough for you already, Parrish?”

“You’re awful,” he says, pushing up to sit back on his heels, putting distance between the two of them. It’s both better and worse; Ronan laid out beneath him is a sight, all flushed skin and dark eyes, grasping fingers. He smirks up at Adam, hungry eyes heavy on Adam’s chest and shoulders before they move down, down…The smirk loses something of itself as Ronan eyes Adam’s hands at the fly of his jeans. It becomes less harsh at the edges, distracted by the easy flick of fingers that releases the button, the slow, deliberate drag of the zipper downward. Adam feels the blood rise to his skin, feels himself blushing, amazed—still—at the intensity of Ronan’s regard.

Hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and underwear, Adam rises up on his knees. He watches the way the pink tip of Ronan’s tongue skims over his bottom lip, the way his fists clench and unclench, palms up, against the sheets. The way he doesn’t look away from Adam once.

“You can touch,” he says, feeling self-conscious. “I won’t break.”

Ronan’s eye flit up to his, sharp and unerring, Ronan so very present in the moment. “You’re the least breakable person I know,” he says, reaching up to run the back of his knuckles over the curve of Adam’s cock where it’s obvious through the opening of his jeans.

Adam shudders, hard, his heart too full, and lowers his pants. His cock bobs free, and then Ronan’s hand is on him, fitting around him as though he was meant for it, as though Adam was the one with dreams at his mercy.

“Fuck,” Ronan says. “Look at you.”

He doesn’t know what Ronan sees. How the angles of his cheekbones and the points of his collar, the knobs his elbows and the lines of his hips add up to something miraculous in Ronan’s eyes, Adam doesn’t know. But he feels it to the core of him, here like this.

“Me?” he says. “Look at you.” And then he’s bending down, shifting and bending and fitting their mouths together again because he can’t look at Ronan any more, not with his heart thundering wildly in his chest.

Ronan groans beneath him, mouth hot and tongue slick. He lets go of Adam’s cock to cling to his shoulders, and when he pulls away they’re both panting and Adam knows he’s leaking, knows that Ronan feels it collecting on his skin by the way Ronan’s hips shift impatiently. “Adam,” he breathes. “ _Please_.”

Just like that, Adam’s moving. The rest of his clothing disappears, kicked off and disposed of over the side of the bed. Ronan’s jeans are halfway down his thighs by then, Ronan squirming as he works them off, desperate and grinning, and then Adam is back on him, kneeing between Ronan’s thighs, finding his place again.

Arms around Adam’s shoulders, ankles hooking behind Adam’s thighs, Ronan wraps himself around him, pulling him close. Chest to chest and hips to hips, cock to cock, Ronan makes a sound low in the back of his throat. It cuts straight through Adam to the very core of him where he keeps the things that are the darkest and brightest, the most vulnerable, hidden and safe. Ronan’s voice cuts him deep, and Adam can feel himself bleeding feeling, everything too much or not enough, he isn’t sure any more.

 _We were always going to end up here_ , he thinks, mouthing at the edges of dark ink he can reach at this angle. _This was always going to be it_.

He is surprisingly okay with this.

He is even more okay with it when Ronan’s fingernails dig into his shoulders, when Ronan’s grip on him tightens, the friction between them building. The heat between them is unbelievable, and they’re both sweating, slick skin moving against slick skin. His cock is tucked in the curve of Ronan’s hip, sliding against Ronan’s own erection. Ronan’s face is tucked against him, each breath ragged in his good ear as he clings.

“Adam,” he pants, the pace between them quickening. “ _Adam_.”

So simple; two syllables, one name, and Adam is gone, lost in the sound of Ronan’s voice and the feel of his breath, the ten points of his fingers and the urgency of his hips. “Ronan,” he breathes in response. “Yes, I—”

“Fuck me,” Ronan says. “I want you to—I want—”

They haven’t talked about it, not really, not yet. This thing between them is still too new, too big, though Adam would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of it before—before they began, before this moment; does it matter what he means? Time is fluid, and they are here now. And Ronan—who makes you think he plays everything close to the chest, who keeps you at arm’s distance until he doesn’t—Ronan wants him and wants this and would open himself to Adam even more than he’s already done and let Adam in, blurring the lines of where Adam stops and Ronan begins even more.

It’s overwhelming, and Adam can’t help the way his hips jerk, the way his muscles clench, the way he comes without warning against Ronan’s stomach and cock.

“Fuck!” he says, heart racing as he comes down. “Fuck, Ronan, I’m sorry, I—”

But Ronan’s not paying any attention. He’s breathing hard against Adam’s cheek, hot and damp. When Adam pulls back enough to look at him, his eyes are squeezed shut and there’s a line between his brows that Adam’s thumb itches to smooth out. So he reaches up and does so, able to touch however wherever whenever he likes. Only then does Ronan open his eyes.

“I—”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” Ronan’s voice is thick and rough, curling between them like smoke. “Don’t you _dare_.”

And then he pulls Adam in and kisses him. His mouth is soft, tongue lazy, and Adam realizes he recognizes this Ronan, this post-coital being whose kisses are slow as molasses.

“You came?” Adam asks, pulling back in surprise.

Ronan stares at him a moment before he rolls his eyes. “Are you kidding me? Duh.” He brushes the back of his knuckles against Adam’s cheek. “You’re fucking hot,” he says, voice surprisingly soft. Or maybe not so surprising, if Adam thinks about it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Adam nuzzles into his hand, presses kisses into Ronan’s palm. “Might be too late for that. See,” a whisper, “you’re already rubbing off on me.”

Ronan’s laugh is triumphant.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Killers' "On Top."


End file.
